I Will Catch You
by Happytohelp
Summary: Kataang Week: Hands. 1st attempt. Sometimes, Aang would lie awake at night staring at his hands.


_Oh god it's been so long._

_This was my first try at "Hands", but I didn't like it that much. I'm kinda ambivalent towards it now._

_This doesn't really have anything to do with hands. Maybe if you squint._

* * *

Sometimes, Aang would lie awake at night staring at his hands.

They were rough and calloused, a result of years of training and conditioning that had left his body in excellent shape and his bending ability unparalleled; the once smooth skin of his palms and fingertips had been an unfortunate casualty of the process. His hands were larger now too. Fifteen and a half; he had grown up a lot in the past three years, both physically and emotionally, and it had gotten to the point where he was slowly, but surely advancing on Sokka's height (a fact which irked the warrior to no end as his "little brother" of the past few years seemed to become less and less little every time they saw each other).

Aang was stronger and wiser than he had ever been. Happier too. He was often surrounded by his friends (his _family_), his relationship with Katara was progressing brilliantly and the rest of the world seemed to finally, _finally,_ be taking those first baby steps towards establishing peace. All the hours and hours of reading, writing, organising and arguing. Every sleepless night that he and Zuko had been made to endure during particularly stressful periods of negotiations. It was all beginning to look like it would end up being worth something.

It used to be the case that some nights, Katara would come looking for him in whatever palace or inn they happened to be staying in and she would find him slouched over a desk, snoring, drooling occasionally, the ink on his quill still wet, and large piles of unsigned documents towering over him, just the latest in the non-stop deluge of unreasonable workloads that were being thrust upon him. It was enough to make her blood boil. She felt like marching into those peace talks and giving those two-bit politicians a piece of her mind. Being the Avatar was a responsibility that Aang had never asked for, never wanted, and yet here he was, exhausted after yet another mind numbing day of talks, the result of his valiant acceptance of the mantle that had stolen everything from him. He wasn't Aang. _Aang_ didn't matter to the world, but somehow he managed to take this clear disregard for his identity, the disinterest in _who he was_ in stride. Katara admired him for that.

It was in moments like those that it would just sneak up on her how much she loved him. She didn't really think about. She acknowledged that he was absolutely her best friend in the whole wide world, and that he was probably the most important person in her entire life and all she really wanted was for him to be happy and safe and with her all the time… Okay, maybe she did think about it.

Despite all her misgivings about the situation, he had made his choice and there was no going back now.

So she would swallow down the bubbling anger and sigh, draping a coat across him before kissing the top of his head and retreating to her own room.

That period was, thankfully, beginning to come to an end. His work wouldn't be over, maintaining peace was a full time job, but maybe he'd have time to relax a little now.

Then maybe, he'd use that free time to obsess over stupid things like his hands, like he was doing right now.

The thing that had brought about this most recent round of obsession was a comment Katara had made just a few days ago. They had been holding hands (_naturally_), on a walk in Ba Sing Se's lower ring, making good use of their newfound free time, when Katara had hummed under her breath.

"What's up?"

"Uh… what? Oh, nothing," she had replied, a light pink dusting her cheeks. He thought that maybe she hadn't intended to be heard.

"Nothing, huh? Well, I'd love to hear about it, tell me more," he responded, a light teasing in his tone. She sighed.

"Well, actually, I was just thinking about your hands," she told him, lifting up his hand which was tight in hers.

"My hands?"

"Yep"

"Mind if I ask why?"

"It's kind of insignificant really," she prefaced, "but it's just… they used to be so much softer when you were younger."

"Umm, alright."

"They're just, so much rougher than they used to be, have you noticed that?"

It was then that the insecurity had set in. His hands are too rough? What's the problem with rough hands? Are they uncomfortable to hold? How long has this been an issue? Has she only just noticed this problem, or has she been aware of it for a while but was too polite to mention it and only tried to bring it up now because it was getting unbearable?

They were still walking, and Aang looked up at the sky when he asked,

"Is that a bad thing?"

Katara picked up on the tone of his voice easily (she could read him _so well_), the vulnerability there, the slim thread of regret. She stopped walking and pulled back on his hand to stop him.

"Aang, no, of course it's not a bad thing," she told him, all smiles, "I wouldn't be holding it if it were a bad thing, would I?" There was laughter in her voice as she spoke, as though this were the most obvious thing in the world.

"I guess you wouldn't," he muttered, still not quite meeting her eyes. At this, Katara decided he was the sweetest boy in the world. Flustered at the tiniest details, sometimes he was so adorable that she wanted to squeal. Instead, she turned his face towards her by placing her fingers under his chin, forcing him to meet her eyes. Aang's breath caught at the contact, but he looked straight at her this time.

"Aang," she started, "your hands aren't any better, or any worse than they were before, okay?" She drew his face towards hers as she spoke, their lips getting closer and closer as she stood ever so slightly on tip toes, until he could feel her words as puffs of air on his mouth.

"They are as good as they have always been. Just… different," and with that she kissed him. They kissed for only a few seconds before they broke apart, being in the middle of a crowded street as they were, but she continued gazing at him adoringly, smiling a brilliant smile, and he swore his heart was melting.

They kept walking then, in comfortable silence. The mood wasn't as cheerful as before, though, and Katara decided to try and lift Aang's spirits a bit.

"You want to know when I started noticing how different your hands were?" she prodded, smiling.

"When?"

"Probably when you got taller than me."

Aang's face burst out in a grin at that proclamation, and Katara couldn't contain the giggle that forced its way out.

Later, they met up with their friends and Aang didn't worry about it for the rest of the day. But when night fell, and she went to her room and he to his, and all was quiet, the insecurity silently crept back.

Aang wasn't worried that Katara didn't like how his hands felt. After a little bit of thought, and her earlier reassurance, it was quite difficult to convince himself she held any dissatisfaction towards them. Aang had been taller than her for almost a year now and in that time they had held hands countless times, as well as doing… other things involving their hands.

In the beginning of their relationship, after that monumental kiss in Iroh's tea shop, it had always been up to Katara to instigate any kind of physical intimacy. Holding hands, hugging, kissing… Aang seemed averse to any level of intimate contact with her. It was slightly disheartening at first, but he always reciprocated when she prompted, and she would later learn that the reason for his hesitance was his paralysing terror of scaring her away, ending their fledgling relationship there and then by pushing too hard or making her uncomfortable.

With her encouragement, Aang had become more and more confident in their physical interactions. It became not uncommon for him to walk up from behind and wrap his arms around her and rest his head on her shoulder, or to surprise her with a kiss during a conversation.

The way he touched her changed too. Whenever they made contact, he would linger ever so slightly, sending shivers through her. He used to place his arms relatively high around her waist, and at first he virtually refused to put his hands on her. With a little coercing, however, his hands soon began to travel lower and lower down her back, and now he wasn't shy to placing the boldly on her hips. Sometimes he would cup the back of her head while they kissed, with one hand low on her back, and occasionally they kissed with very little on (_waterbending_ they said).

It was in stark contrast to their interactions during the war. She used to be able to set his heart racing with a glace; his breath would congeal during a hug; and she could turn his face a brilliant shade of red with a kiss on the cheek, and while she could still have those effects on him, the tables had somewhat turned since then. Now, _he _was making _her _blush, _he _made _her_ breath catch in _her _throat. Sometimes, he even managed to make her swoon.

This brought Aang back to the subject of his hands. Aang wondered how it had gotten to the point where she enjoyed his touch as much as he enjoyed hers. Had it been that way all along? Maybe she was just better at hiding it, but back then he wouldn't have been able to imagine that one day he would have that much an effect on her, be able to provoke the reactions she provoked in him.

But then there was the fact that just last week, during a particularly intense make-out session on the couch, Aang's hands had inadvertently slid up under the hem of her shirt and onto the soft, warm skin of her back and he swore he heard her _purr, _she _purred_ right into his mouth and he groaned loudly in response. How could he have done that if she didn't like how his hands felt?

At this train of thought, his mind wandered to Katara's hands. They were small, smaller than his, or at least they were now where a few years ago they were the same size. They were impossibly soft and smooth, which was a miracle considering the amount of cooking and cleaning she did (because, honestly, who else was going to?), her regular waterbending practise, not to mention spending the first 14 years of her life in a polar environment. Aang marvelled at the way she had maintained her skin, even during the war, when they slept on the ground and purchased only the necessities her skin had remained as flawless as ever, although maybe, he thought, he was a little biased in his admiration.

Of course, the whole world knew about her proficiency as a healer, but perhaps they didn't know the tender way she would brush the tips of her fingers against his skin during the process, which helped him to feel infinitely better than just the water alone. They didn't know about the way she would put his head in her lap and gently run her fingers along his arrow and his jaw, tracing the features of his face. They didn't know about the way her hands would grip the front of his shirt when he went in for a particularly stunning kiss, or the way she would run them up and down his chest, turning the tables.

At the same time they were firm, strong, sturdy. Katara's hands could protect the weak and save lives. They could comfort, and they could nurture. Her hands had lifted others, helping them to become stronger, better than they were, to achieve their destiny (and save the world). Never letting the doubt set in, never letting fear take hold. Katara would never let anyone feel weak, or ashamed, or alone.

Katara was a lifeline. She was a rock. Not like him. He was weak, fragile. He broke easily and he ran away.

Therein lay his insecurity. How could anybody deserve her? How could he ever be good enough for her?

One evening found them cuddling up against one another (they didn't have to make out _all_ the time), their backs to the wall and Katara's head on his shoulder and her hand in his. Sokka, Suki, and Toph were talking and laughing at one of the tables in the house, and Katara was tracing nonsense patterns on the arrow on the back of his hand. Aang could feel that familiar tingling warmth pooling in the pit of his stomach, and he had to concentrate so he wouldn't break the mood or embarrass himself.

Katara's hand stilled their ministrations for a moment before bringing their intertwined fingers up to her mouth and kissing the tip of the arrow there, and Aang had to fight down a thick lump of emotion that began forming in his throat (they could get _very_ sentimental).

She reached out to grab his other hand and placed them on his leg, where she gripped them tightly.

"I love this," she whispered.

"What?" he asked equally quietly.

"_This_. All of this," she gestured vaguely towards their friends.

"Us."

"I love you," Aang blurted out, his cheeks reddening slightly. Katara gasped softly at the quiet confession. Those three words weren't said particularly often. They knew they were in love, and that was enough. They were young and they had the rest of their lives ahead of them. Saying the words wasn't really necessary (but sometimes it _was_ nice to hear).

"I love you too."

She shifted, turning her face to nuzzle at his neck, her breath hot on his throat.

She whispered sweet nothings against his skin, breathing how happy he made her and how loved she felt when he was with her, how he made her _proud_ to be who she was.

Aang wondered if maybe he had died and gone to heaven.

If being in his arms really meant that much to her, if that was what she felt when he touched her, then maybe he was doing something right.

The world was changing and so was he. Though there were surely hundreds more changes to come, maybe the future wasn't so scary if he got to spend it with her. So many wonderful possibilities; choosing a house with Katara; marrying Katara; _making a family with Katara_.

Finding a home in her arms and giving her all the love he possibly can.

Aang would spend the rest of his life with that goal in mind. He would do his best to become the man she deserved. He would make the world a better place for _her_ and he would be whatever she needed and anything she wanted. He would take care of her and support her in whatever way she permitted. _He_ would be _her_ rock and he would never let her down.

Feeling the rightness of this pledge spread through him, the warmth that travelled to his toes and his fingertips. He looked at their hands, still joined on his leg, her small hand warm in his, the weight of her pressed against him, and he squeezed them just a little tighter, hoping to tell her without words what he held in his heart (because words were always a problem for him).

_You can hold on to me. If you stumble and fall I will be there and I will catch you._

* * *

_AN: Get it. Because "catch". Like with your hands? I got nothin'. Also, parentheses are really great._


End file.
